Jenifer’s Shelter Island Journal: Hallways

Hallways.

There have been many times in my life when something was in the offing, the pipeline, on its way, but just not yet … not yet. And I’d find myself in that hallway — sometimes short, sometimes seemingly endless — that in-between — brightly lit, dim, murky, or jet black.

Sometimes waiting, for the baby, the wedding, the divorce, the vacation, the test results, the employer’s decision, and, for me,  in this present moment, the completion of the addition that’s supposed to become, all things being equal, my home.

It strikes me now at my advanced age, that I’ve actually spent most of my life in hallways, chronically in transition. I mean, more often than not, when someone’s asked me how things were going, I’d say, “Oh … I’m kind of in transition.” 

I’m beginning to wonder if all these hallways are, in fact, the same hallway, one vast mega-hallway to which, though we may take a temporary detour that seems to lead us to our destination, we, more often than not, find ourselves returning.

Note to self: You might consider going back into your overgrown thicket of metaphors and extricate one that is somewhat more precise than the awkward “mega-hallway,” like “highway” for instance. Apologies to Michael Landon, late star of “Highway to Heaven,” who would point out to us if he could, that “highway” as a metaphor for life has been done to, well, death of course.

Hallways or highways, the fact is, I’m on/in one right now. It’ll be one month ago this Monday that the cats and I moved into the lovely home of my lovely daughter and son-in-law. This “hallway” offers me my own waiting room, a very attractive one, with a bath, practically en suite, just across the hall, while my cats enjoy their own well-appointed “basement apartment.” What’s not to love?  Absolutely nothing.

The thing is, though I realize that I’m pining in the lap of comparative luxury, I’m still pining for mine own home, my stuff, my sense of self and, with kid-in-the-backseat impatience, for finally getting into the addition. Intellectually, I realize that I’m not alone in feeling this kind of dislocation. I just checked, and sure enough, moving is still number three on the list of human stressors. 

But that doesn’t help me feel less dislocated. According to a 2022 online article from verywellmind.com: “Moving somewhere new can be incredibly exciting … opening up new friendships and experiences — and can even foster positive self-growth as you navigate fresh surroundings. That most stressful life events we can go through — ‘It’s an overwhelming endeavor that can easily activate many of our emotions,’ says Hillary Schoninger, LCSW. ‘Although moving may be a happy change, it is still change which can be challenging.’ Whether you’re relocating across the state, country, or even globe, there are ways there to fill your move with more joy and stave off moving stress.”

That’s all perfectly true, even if the “somewhere” I’m moving to (when the addition is finally done) is only about 28’ to the west of what I’ve come to call “the Mother Ship.” But what this tiny move actually represents, I’m just beginning to realize as I write this, is part of a journey that I think I may have been on for the past several years.

I’m moving, yes, but inside myself, in my attitudes, in my self-image, in my acceptance of the hallways and highways in my life, and the fact that they always lead me somewhere, even if while I’m in one, I feel stuck, inert. No matter how it seems, nothing is static, even me. I finally get it that the addition is actually an acknowledgment that I’ve been traveling into old age — and it’s O.K. — just new territory. Not for sissies, maybe, plenty of aches and pains, but, still, I wouldn’t want to miss it. I wouldn’t want to miss anything.

I may not have moved into my addition yet, but I think maybe I’ve finally arrived at my inside destination: “Old” is O.K.  “Old” is a gift. These past few weeks, for all my pining, I’ve been having some wonderful times with my grandchildren in this  hallway that I wouldn’t have had otherwise: Having funny, philosophical car rides to school in the morning, them piling onto my bed with their homework at night, karaoke contests, word game competitions, on and on, as well as the great privilege of experiencing the rhythm and energy of my daughter and son-in-law’s beautiful family from the inside.

So that’s the deal. Young or old, whatever your destination, it’s what you do in the meantime, in that hallway, while you’re waiting to arrive, that really counts.

Most of you know that, don’t you? Well, all I can say is, I’m curious, now that I’m here, what I’ll do with “old.”